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Grief hath so keenly been wearing

String after string from her heart, Death's icy finger is bearing

On the last thread that can part ! Earth's bitter cup she hath tasted

Never replenished shall be ; Time's rapid sand-grains are wasted,

Joy! for her spirit is free!

She who so lately was weeping,

Stricken, bewildered, and lorn, Now is all peacefully sleeping,

Clouds cannot darken her morn!

O’er her sweet rose-tree and myrtle,

When the drear

cypress

had

grown,

She was the poor moaning turtle,

Now to the balsam-tree flown.

H. F. GOULD.

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Of the light clouds, as they were wont to pass

A long while ago.

There are the roses which they used to gather

To bind a fair young brow, no longer fair ;
Ah! art thou mocking us, thou summer weather,

To be so sunny, with the loved one? where? 'Tis not her voice, 'tis not her step, that lingers

In lone familiar sweetness on the wind !

The bee, the bird, are now the only singers ;

Where is the music soft with theirs combined

A long while ago ?

So young,

As the lorn flowers that in her pale hand perished,

Is she who only hath a memory here !
She was so much a part of us, so cherished,

that even love forgot to fear. Now is her image paramount, -it reigneth

With a sad strength that time may not subdue ;
And memory a mournful triumph gaineth,
As the cold looks we cast around, renew

A long while ago.

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The past,

Thou lovely garden! where the summer covers

The tree with green leaves, and the ground with flowers Darkly they pass ; - around thy beauty hovers

the grave of our once happy hours.
It is too sad, to gaze upon the seeming

Of nature's changeless loveliness, and feel
That, with the sunshine round, the heart is dreaming
Darkly o'er wounds inflicted, not to heal,

A long while ago.

Ah, visit not the scenes where youth and childhood

Passed years that deepened as those years went by!
Shadows will darken in the careless wild wood, -

There will be tears upon the tranquil sky.
Memoirs, like phantoms, haunt me while I wander

Beneath the drooping boughs of each old tree :
I grow too sad, as mournfully I ponder
Things that are not, and yet that used to be,

A long while ago.

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Worn out, the heart seems, like a ruined altar!

Where are the friends, and where the faith of yore?

1

My eyes grow dim with tears, - my footsteps' falter,

Thinking of those whom I can love no more. We change, and others change, while recollection

Fain would renew what it can but recall :

Dark are life's dreams, and weary its affection,
And cold its hopes, and yet I felt them all,

A long while ago.

MISS LANDON.

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